3: Hammerhead
by Math Girl
Summary: Gordon competes in the Olympics, a nuclear attack sub is down in the Chukchi Sea, and Alan makes plans for a sleepover. A continuation of events in Family Emergency and Controlled Burn still quite alternate universe.
1. chapter 1: Prelude

_..The follow up to Controlled Burn, and I think I've finally managed to master the fine art of chapterizing, many thanks to Tikatue, Boomercat, Darkhelmet and Opal Girl; good friends, all. Once again, it is AU, the same story, continued. The characters are not mine, but I love them, in whatever form they take._

**Hammerhead**

1.

Alan Tracy slumped against the passenger door of his mother's powder blue Cadillac Escalade, staring resolutely out the side window at a crawling interstate. He had earphones on, and wore a sullen, defiant expression. It was his first Monday back since Easter vacation, he was going to school, and the morning had been one long, continuous, pitched battle.

His mother was just about in tears, trying hard to win back even a glimpse of the sunny, chubby blond boy she remembered, but Alan wasn't having any.

"Sweetie," his mother pled, steering with one hand as she reached out to touch his shoulder, _"please,_ let's try to make it a good day. All you have to do is sit in class, click through the lessons and type up a report or two. Please, Baby..., just do what they tell you?"

Alan jerked away from her touch, seething inside.

'_Just do what they tell you...!'_ He repeated to himself, savagely; like it was ever that easy...! He was fourteen years old, in the ninth grade by the grace of God and his father's wealth. He hated school; was no good at it, got almost physically ill at the sight of a disc or keyboard. Only on the speak-type could he write, and then he got low marks for synonym and grammatical errors. His teachers were condescending, his parents confused, and his grades abysmal. Only one person seemed to understand what grinding torture these classes were for Alan, and tried to help out..., but he wasn't here. Mom was.

Now they were nearing the school, about to make the last turn off the freeway that would bring him back to prison. His stomach muscles clenching, Alan turned up the volume on hisMP3 player, drowning out his mother's words.

Gennine Rivers, once Gennine Tracy, gripped the big steering wheel white-knuckle tight. She drove automatically, unseeingly, forcing the Escalade's on-board computer guidance system to take over repeatedly. Like her son, she was blonde, and beautiful. Her features were more classical, though; more ice-queen than Dutch-boy. Alan, despite his gelled hair and surly attitude, had the cherubic face and sea-blue eyes of a Botticelli angel. Her beautiful son, still and always.

If only she could find a way to reach him...! Something that would crack through that angry shell and release her boy... A happy thought came to her, suddenly, and Gennine bounced excitedly in her leather seat. Reaching over, she tapped her son's slumping shoulder.

"Alan...? Baby...?" He scowled, pretended not to hear her. Gennine pressed on. "Sweetie, what if we invite Gordon to come stay with us again, after the Olympics? He could have the guest room, and the two of you could spend the summer together."

Alan turned off the CD player and gave his mother a cautious, sideways look.

"You mean it?" He asked, finally. "You want me to call him tonight? Last time, you said two of us were more than you could handle."

Gennine gave him a tentative, hopeful little smile.

"Well, Sweetie-pie, I know you think he hangs the moon and polishes the stars... and it would be nice for you to have some time together, after everything that's happened... So, sure; after school today, give your brother a call."

Alan grinned, and for a moment Gennine went back eight years, to a time when it was newly just the two of them, and he'd been her sole comfort.

"Yeah! Okay. ...And, hey, Mom? How 'bout tickets to a few of his events? The swim meets are gonna be held in Astoria. It's not that far, if I fly, and they don't cost much. I could take TinTin!"

For that smile, Gennine would have sold her soul.

"Why not? Use my credit card. Get a ticket for me, too. Just one. Something he's sure to win. Competition makes me nervous."

Alan rolled his eyes in pretended disgust, playfully ruffling her hair.

"Wimp! You want the 400 meter I M, then. That one's locked up, Mom; guaranteed gold."

"It'd better be...," she replied primly, "or I'll spend the whole race with my eyes covered, like I did at your cousin's ballet recital."

"Yeah, but that's different. Let's face it, Mom, Trudy stinks. Gordon doesn't..., at swimming, anyway. He's a crappy skate boarder, though. Wait 'll you see him try that backward pool slide trick of mine!"

His mother made a face, saying,

"At this point, Sweetie, the less I hear of your plans, the better. Just don't call me from prison, or the hospital!"

Gennine and her son laughed together as they hadn't done in years, making elaborate plans for the big visit all the way to Alan's school.


	2. Chapter 2 : Introductions

_At the European Union, Gordon trains for the Olympics, and life gets complicated. Alternate Universe, still, and with thanks due also to Zeilfanaat, a writer of great talent. )_

In Madrid, at the E.U. 's state-of-the-art Olympic swimming complex, matters were very different. Numb with exhaustion, Gordon forced himself to keep moving. He'd swum nearly two kilometers already, freestyle, at the best speed he could manage, and now it was as much as he could do to reach the end of the pool.

...The end where his coach waited, red-faced and furious, pacing like a caged beast.

Muscles burning, skin blotched purple from oxygen debt, Gordon made it to the wall, tried to heave himself out of the water, but couldn't.

Instead, he clung to the edge, and wretched miserably into the gutter.

"What're y' doin'!" McMahon raged, hurling his clipboard and stop watch to the concrete pool deck. "What the hell's the matter with you! Eh? Distance too much? Can't take it? _Then get y'r candy-ass out of my pool and off this bloody team, and go home!_ Damn prima donna! Cut practice, skip trainin', then want t' come back sayin' y've kept up at home! You're bloody lucky I don't drop you t' the B-team! Hell, you're lucky you've not been cut! Whiny little puke! Quit, why don't you! It's what y' want t' do, isn't it!"

Busy with marathons of their own, the rest of the team kept their heads down and kept on swimming. No one else wanted the coach's particular attention, just now; not with the Olympics so near, and McMahon in such a state.

"Feel like quittin', don't you!" He prodded again.

"N– no, Sir...," Gordon replied, fighting to get his breathing and heart rate under control. "I w-... want t' stay... on the team."

Now McMahon exploded. If he'd been agitated before, he was barking mad now, cursing with every other breath and wind milling his arms like an escaped lunatic.

"Then bloody _PROVE IT! _Quit disappearin' on me, and swim like you want a gold medal instead of a damn consolation prize!" Suddenly, McMahon switched tactics. Capable of going from full-on rampage to quiet and fatherly in a head-snapping instant, he'd use any method whatever to keep his team in line. Squatting down, the coach brought himself closer to Gordon's level, and clapped a hand to the back of the lad's neck below his close-shorn auburn hair, saying,

"Tracy, y'r a hell of a swimmer, but y' could do a lot better. Y'r quick; you could be faster. Y'r number two in the 400 IM; you could be number one. Y'r good; you could be great. I see all this in you, and it frustrates th' hell outta me that I can't bring it out. What's it gonna take, Lad? What's it gonna take f'r you t' give me one-hundred percent, instead o' damn fifty?"

Gordon looked up briefly, goggles flashing in the cool fluorescent light.

" I'm not tired, Coach," he lied stoutly. "Give me another set, an' I'll prove it."

McMahon nodded. "I'll give y' the set, then, and somethin' t' think about, besides. You've talent and speed, Lad. The only thing y'r lackin' is commitment. I c'n give you the tools, but it's up t' you t' use 'em, and if there's anythin' else in y'r life that's comin' between you and gold... it's got t' go. You need t' make a choice, Lad; now. What's it gonna be? The Olympics, or an _"I used t' be somebody" _story, and a job at the steel mills? Up to you. Now..., give me an easy 300; 50 free, 25 each stroke beginnin' with the fly, then a 50 meter kick set. Show me what y' got."

And then he stood, giving his youngest swimmer an approving tap on the back of the head. McMahon screamed a lot (was notorious for it, in fact). But he was devoted to his swimmers, and the sport, and had a gut-level feeling that Tracy could go all the way, if he ever got himself together.

Gordon pushed off the wall and began, concentrating more on form than speed... at first, anyway. His worst failing at swim meets had always been impatience; an inability to pace himself and strategize. The setting didn't help.

Madrid's pool was incredibly "fast", very deep and wide, with broad gutters that absorbed the turbulence he churned up without reflecting it back in speed-killing waves.

He was in lane four, supposedly warming down from the marathon, but in fact pushing himself again, feeling the water respond to his stroke like a living thing. Even tired, he was as natural and playful in the water as a dolphin. Soon Gordon was racing again, swimming flat-out, full-on, just for the fun of it.

At the pool's edge, McMahon glanced at his stopwatch, shaking his grizzled head.

"No discipline," he muttered sourly. "Speedy little blighter..., but no discipline at all." With a couple of quick marks to the clipboard, McMahon prepared to switch tactics again. Developing a swimmer was a lot like gem-cutting. You tapped, you polished, and you thought a lot. Sometimes you cut, ground and swore. Then, in the end, if all went well, you had something brilliant. The sort of master athlete that came along but once or twice in a coach's career. Or, if you pushed too hard at just the wrong moment, you hit a flaw and ended up with worthless, ruined junk. Watching young Tracy make his turn at the far wall, McMahon prepared to unleash another blistering firestorm, and wondered which it was going to be.


	3. Chapter 3 Underway

_Life aboard Hammerhead..._

Petty officer third class David Alvarez was racing, too. Racing a severe case of homesickness all around the torpedo tubes of "Sherwood Forest". It wasn't much of a track, submarines being terribly short on space, and there was no fresh air, sunshine or birdsong to beguile the workout. Rather, his was a cramped, hushed, restricted world of dim red lights, stale air, humming engines and whirring fans. But it was home, for at least the next six months.

Alvarez was a planesman aboard SSN 821, the _Hammerhead._ His job, to keep the prototype attack sub at the right pitch, diving or surfacing at the watch officer's word, with a push to the silver control wheel.

It was both a tremendous honor, and a grave risk, being part of _Hammerhead's_ first crew, for she wasn't even supposed to exist. Like the other nations of the over-peopled Earth, the United States had officially signed the World Government Initiative of 2042, and then proceeded to quietly violate each and every military restriction. Only the World Navy was supposed to develop and run attack submarines, promising to keep the shores of its member states safe from predation by rogue organizations, but the US, suspicious and independent to the last, refused to completely disarm. Thus, the _Hammerhead._

She was the first of her kind; a stealthy, fast hunter-killer sub packed from bow to stern with brand new and mostly un-tested technology, and she was also completely illegal. 377 feet long, 34 feet across the beam, she could make 40 knots on the surface, and 55 knots submerged. Her six torpedo tubes fired lethal super-cavitating Hellstorm torpedoes capable of slicing toward a target at mach one... _underwater._ 18 VLS tubes held Lightning Bolt missiles for pin-point land strikes, and she could be re-configured in a hurry to carry a SEAL fireteam to its drop-off point.

This was her shake-down cruise, a test run out of San Francisco, up the west coast, then under the northern pack ice to poke around the coast of Europe for awhile. Not that Alvarez knew where they were headed. Like his best friend and fellow planesman, Louis Peete, he'd been told of his selection, sworn to secrecy and brought aboard with less than 24 hours warning, and no itinerary.

He hadn't refused, of course. Alvarez..., slender, olive-skinned and friendly, with incongruous green eyes and bristling black hair ..., was a lifer. Wedded to the submarine service. Didn't mean he missed his wife and baby son any less, though. In truth, he worried about them every second he was away. But Kitt and Max were Navy through and through. They'd manage. In the meantime, he had a mission, and a boat to steer.

He kept up his run, calling insults and jokes at the crewmen he passed and re-passed along the way, subconsciously memorizing the vibrations, noises and personalities, the 'feel', of the boat. Each sub was different, but after two weeks, he was finally coming to know _Hammerhead, _and to feel a part of her.

At last, he finished running. No sense building up too much of a sweat, with shower times so restricted. Bidding farewell to the fire control crew, Alvarez swarmed up a narrow metal ladder and headed for "habitation". He had just enough time, if he hurried, to rinse off, find an unoccupied bunk, and get a few hours of sleep before he had to stand watch... provided the Old Man didn't order any surprise fire drills or dive tests. One thing about life aboard a nuclear attack sub; it was rarely dull. Cramped, yes. Tense and uncomfortable, absolutely. But boring? Almost never. Especially when you were sneaking around in flagrant defiance of Global law.

Having reached the berthing deck, Alvarez doffed his sneakers and blue suit, took a three-minute shower, then picked up a flashlight, and headed for the bunk he rotated through with three other men. Pulling the curtain back, he shielded the torch's light with one hand and peered into the tiny sleeping compartment.

Calvert woke immediately and rolled out of the bunk, ready to begin his watch.

"Everything okay?" He asked in a whisper, so as not to wake all the other men sleeping behind canvas curtains.

"Hot, straight and normal," Alvarez replied with a smile. "Have a good one."

And with that, they exchanged places, Calvert removing his bedding to make way for the petty officer's. Reaching into the under-bunk storage locker, Alvarez pulled out a novel and started to read. Got through two whole paragraphs, almost, before the fire drill. Nope. Never a dull moment.


	4. Chapter 4 Meanwhile

_Training, and distraction._

The next few months passed swiftly for Gordon. He took part in very few rescues, focusing instead on his swimming, and the extra effort soon dropped his times to world championship levels.

He and Royce Fellows, his roommate and friend, pasted the competition at their next five swim meets, breaking records, and hearts, all over the Union. They qualified for the Olympics in several events, together with the rest of the finalized A-team: Damien LeClaire, Erik Nilssen, Nathan Croft, Kurt Shultz and Vittorio Moreira.

One afternoon in early July, Gordon and Royce left the swim complex after a particularly grueling workout, barely able to see straight. Gordon had twice fallen asleep in the shower, and had a nasty bump on his head to show for it. Utterly spent, he and Royce wove their unsteady way across the entrance hall like they were fighting a brisk head wind.

They pushed through the glass double doors with leaden arms, headed down a flight of concrete steps and into the warm Spanish sunshine. The heat felt good on tired muscles, but it made them even sleepier. The dorm seemed an unreachable paradise, just then; a thousand miles away rather than a mere two blocks. Gordon was all for stretching out on the stairs with his swim bag for a pillow, when something happened that snapped him most of the way awake, again.

The synchronized swim team appeared, heading in for their own practice just as the two young men were staggering off. Vivacious, lithely muscled and lovely, the girls gave Gordon and Royce a few cheerful cat-calls, darting past like a flock of humming birds.

Gordon paused to watch them go by, then said, a trifle wistfully,

"It's not fair, Royce. Scores of beautiful girls paradin' around in swimsuits... an' all I want t' do is take a nap."

Royce grimaced sympathetically. At eighteen, he was a year and a half older than Gordon, and a full head taller. He shaved his glistening scalp for extra streamlining, wore gold on his teeth and in his ears, and had "Manchester United" tattooed across his broad chest.

" 'Ee does it deliberately, y'know," Royce growled, exhausted and grumpy, "McMahon wants us givin' our all to th' bloody pool, stead of puttin' it about Madrid like a pair of tom cats. Rotten blighter."

"Well...," Gordon sighed, craning his neck for a last glimpse of the departing beauties, "He's got t' start taperin' us sooner or later," (meaning a phased relaxation of their crushing workout regimen, to conserve energy for the Olympics) "And then...,"

Royce jabbed a playful elbow into his teammate's ribs, saying, with a wide grin,

"_Citius, altius, fortius!"_

They slapped palms, nearly tumbled down the stairs, then made their slow, wobbly way back to the dorm, to dream of synchronized swimmers.

_( "Faster, higher, stronger!"; the Olympic motto- although Royce meant it rather differently.)_


	5. Chapter 5 Intermission

Later that afternoon, Virgil and Brains stood amid piles of books and broken machinery in Hackenbacker's jammed and disorderly lab. There was a table between them, upon which great heaps of junk had been stacked. At the very top, resting on a burnt-out circuit board, was a home-made inhaler of some sort, unlabeled. They stared across it at each other, Brains looking impatient. Virgil, dubious.

"So...," he ventured at last, rubbing at the back of his neck, "How's this supposed to help, exactly?"

Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, Brains replied testily,

"I, ah..., I make n-nothing useless, Virgil. T-trust me, when I say th-  
that, ah... that this inhaler w-will significantly increase your, ah... your s-  
smoke tolerance. Just a s-squeeze before, ah... before entering a s-  
smoke-filled area, and your lungs will be, ah... will be perfectly

protected."

Virgil balked, still. "How 'bout I just use a gas mask?" He offered. Brains meant well, but was unable to prevent himself from tinkering; with the aircraft, their maintenance systems... or their pilots. Ideas clawed at his mind from every direction and field of science. Equations, diagrams and inventions jammed his chaotic thoughts, making it very difficult for Hackenbacker to interact normally with regular folk, or to understand their painfully slow thought processes. Growing angry, he folded his arms tightly across his thin chest and snapped at Virgil,

"If you'll recall, V-Virgil, you were, ah... were stripped of y-your gas mask, last time. You m-might have, ah... have asphyxiated b-before you c-could escape the tower. I'm t-trying to, ah... to prevent s-something like, ah... like that f-from turning deadly. As, ah... as sh-should be ob-obvious, I might add!"

Virgil brought his hands up, palms outward, in a placating manner. He was far too used to Brains' mood-swings and demands to lose his own temper. This was good, considering he had a hundred pounds and a full six inches on the twitchy little engineer.

"Okay, take it easy, Brains," he said, a smile in his brown eyes. "Just asking. If you say it'll help... I believe you. Next time there's a fire, I'll use it. Promise." After all, Brains' inventions didn't usually hurt. Much. For very long.

Peace restored, they shook hands on the matter. Giving Hackenbacker a nod, Virgil pocketed the smoke inhaler, then turned and left the room. He'd noticed an odd sound coming from one of Thunderbird 2's steering rockets on their last mission, and wanted to check things out. Or, so he told himself. Truth was, he couldn't wait to roll up his sleeves and get back to work, puttering about in a rocket engine large enough for him to stand up and stretch in. At heart, Virgil was a mechanic.

Checking in with Scott, he put himself on standby. Unless a dire emergency threatened, Virgil was going to be busy for awhile.


	6. Chapter 6: Hide and Seek

_On the nuclear attack sub, out in the polar seas: Hammerhead begins maneuvers, attempting to evade detection by the World Navy._

Things were getting tense aboard _Hammerhead._ For the first time since slipping out of San Francisco Bay, she was preparing to surface. The time was 0300, and the seas above were heavy; state 4. It would be dark upstairs, freezing cold and nasty. Worse, the varying temperatures at different depths served as a sort of sonar shield, effectively hiding any surface vessels that might be snooping around. They took it slow.

The Conn station rather resembled the cockpit of a jumbo jet, without all the windows. Dials, gauges, response bills and electronic displays packed every available surface, every one of them vital.

David Alvarez had the outboard station. He was stern planesman this watch, responsible for raising and lowering the boat. Beside him at the helm sat Louis Peete. Like Alvarez, Peete sat rigidly still, holding a wheel and listening for the orders of Lt. Commander Morrisey, the OOD. _(Officer of the Deck- Morrisey was on watch, that morning.)_

"Attention on deck!" Morrisey called out, suddenly.

"As you were."

Captain Alex Craig had entered the conn station, taking over direct command. For an event as important as their first surface, he absolutely needed to be present.

Craig was a small, intense ember of a man, and a fine officer. He was thirty-six years old, with close-cropped hair already greying at the temples, and a perpetual squint. _Hammerhead _was his fourth, and proudest, command. He'd have cheerfully stacked this sub and its crew against any boat, in any navy, anywhere in the world, fully confident he'd come out on top.

Standing at the Conn station platform with a cup of strong coffee in one hand, the captain gave the word.

"Helm, right ten degrees rudder."

Young Peete responded crisply,

"Right ten degrees rudder, aye aye, Sir." His freckled face deeply serious, Louis Peete turned the helm wheel until "ten degrees" appeared on his display screen. Then, as overhead the rudder and fair water planes began to move, "My rudder is left ten degrees, Sir."

The captain nodded. "Very good, helm." Choosing one of the many microphones that dangled about him on long cords, Craig pressed a switch and continued,

"Sonar, Conn. Clearing baffles to the left. Report all contacts, all noise levels."

With a faint crackle, the sonar officer's voice responded,

"Conn, sonar. Aye, Sir."

As he waited for news, Captain Craig gave the order to rig for red light. It was dark out there, and he'd need his night vision. Lt. Commander Morrisey hit the key himself, suddenly lowering the conn station's lighting from white to dim red. Everyone's pupils dilated as their eyes adjusted to the change.

Sonar came back with three "sightings"; two biologics and one vessel, merchant ship, probably, with a massive, four-bladed screw making ninety-one noisy turns. Sonar estimated the distance at a good twenty-thousand yards. Robot freighter, most likely. No crew, just tons upon tons of bulk cargo headed for the ports of Northern Europe under computer guidance. Still, better to avoid contact. The freighter's scanners would report any unexpected run-ins to World Naval command, and Craig was under strict orders to keep _Hammerhead _a dark secret.

Waiting until the huge, noisy freighter had cleared the area, Captain Craig gave the order to surface.

"Officer of the Deck, proceed to periscope depth. Eight degrees up bubble."

"Proceed to periscope depth, Sir, eight degrees up bubble, aye." Morrisey responded, giving Alvarez a quick nod. The surface klaxon sounded, informing all aboard that they'd soon be breaking water.

David pulled back on his wheel, and _Hammerhead _responded eagerly, nosing for the surface like a broaching whale. The sub tilted eight degrees upward, pressing her crew against their seats. Carefully setting his empty cup down onto a wet towel, the captain continued.

"Make your depth 6 - 5 feet, Deck Officer. All ahead one-half."

Morrisey repeated the order, his voice noticeably hoarser. This was the dangerous part, the first true test of _Hammerhead's_ stealth. Had they been detected? Would there be a squadron of World Navy spotter craft circling above to launch depth charges? Only one way to find out.

Alvarez set the engine annunciator to 'all ahead one-half' , was rewarded by a bell from the maneuvering room. The sub's screw began turning faster, propelling _Hammerhead _through the water with a bit more dispatch. Morrisey called off the depths in ten foot increments, keeping a weather eye on the buoyancy control tanks. Had to stay more or less neutral, or risk bobbing to the surface like a beach ball.

"110 feet..., 100 feet..., 90 feet...," And so on, as the captain ordered the Conn station rigged to black. Now the lights went out entirely, leaving the crew bathed only in the ghostly glow of their dials and readouts.

Meanwhile, Alvarez watched his monitor, keeping the "bubble" at eight degrees, and leveling off the instant _Hammerhead_ reached sixty-five feet. Periscope depth. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Morrisey announced,

"Depth six - five feet, Sir."

"Six -five, Deck Officer. Very good."

Turning to his display screen, Captain Craig touched the key pad button that raised _Hammerhead's_ photonics mast. A faint humming noise filled the Conn station as the tall mast telescoped out of the sub and up into the night air. Periscopes were a thing of the past. Now, instead of mirrors and prisms, the Conn stations received images of the surface through color, high-resolution black-and-white and infrared cameras mounted in the slender mast. There was even a laser range finder.

_Hammerhead_ had begun to roll. Even sixty-five feet below the surface, the seas were turbulent. All over the boat, men steadied themselves and waited.

The Conn station display screens lit up with a sudden flash, splitting into three distinct, slowly shifting images. Two showed high seas and a cloudy, flurried sky; the other a fading trail of phosphorescent plankton stirred up by the vanished freighter. Other than that, nothing. Ocean and skies were clear of contacts for many miles around.

Captain Craig hit the inter-ship comm switch. "All clear, Gentlemen. Repeat: we are all clear!"

Whistles and cheers broke out all over the boat. They'd done it. All the World Navy's technology had proven useless against _Hammerhead._


	7. Chapter 7: Detected

_Hammerhead has attracted John's interest, presenting IR's space monitor with a problem._

The rogue sub did not go totally unnoticed, however. High overhead, a hijacked satellite picked up their presence and sent an image, not to the World Navy, but to Thunderbird 5.

It had been an unusually quiet summer. No major storms despite another half-degree rise in average global temperature, and John Tracy had found time to hack into the Global Weather Watch system, gaining another useful set of eyes. Now one of the newly infected satellites had called in with an unexpected sighting in the Arctic Ocean.

John punched up the image. He was International Rescue's point man; their look-out and trouble shooter. Very little of any importance got past him, thanks to hijacked satellites, computer systems and police scanners the world over. Without him, International Rescue would have been utterly blind.

Now, John's pale brows twitched together slightly as he gazed at the weather satellite's offering.

"What the hell...?" He murmured softly, keying in a higher magnification. With a second keystroke the ocean 'disappeared', leaving behind the ghostly image of an unidentified attack sub hovering over a ridge of jagged sea-mounts. "What are _you_ doing out there?"

John Tracy shared with his four brothers a tenacious, brave and curious nature. Though graver and more quiet than the others, he was several times as stubborn, and never forgot a fact, or dropped a mystery. And now, for good or ill, _Hammerhead_ had piqued his interest.

"Five, cross-reference," he said aloud. "Jayne's Naval Archives: Submarines of the world." Then, as almost an afterthought, "Second cross-reference; Electric Boat: attack sub schematics."

Thunderbird 5's quantum computer processed the command and considered for perhaps an atto-second, coming back almost before John finished speaking,

"No matches found. Next query?" Its voice was feminine and gently British, programmed to very much resemble that of a certain English noblewoman. John paused to think, then responded,

"Right..., Cross-reference: known surface and sub-surface military and merchant marine activity, previous forty-eight hours to present, delineated area."

Two prospects turned up this time, neither of them what he was looking for. A World Navy fleet ballistic missile sub had been through the area 26.724 hours earlier, but she was a huge, wallowing tub by comparison with this darting shark. Then, some two and a half hours ago, the Monsanto _Valiant _had steamed past with a cargo of protein pellets and artificial milk powder.

"Next query?" the computer gently reminded him, loath to return to another eternity of null operations. John nodded.

"Course and speed of targeted craft, Five, and projected destination."

"Heading S by SE with minor course corrections to avoid navigational hazards, speed 26 knots. Projected bearing: 66.61 degrees latitude, 42.28 degrees longitude. Probable destination: Murmansk, Kola Peninsula, Barents Sea."

John didn't wait to be prodded again.

"Computer, list activities for targeted craft at stated location, with probabilities for each."

Between one breath and the next, the computations were completed, and announced.

"Espionage, military, industrial or terrorist... 43.0211 percent statistical probability. Attack on shipping or port facilities... 27.3820 percent statistical probability. Criminal smuggling of drugs or banned arms... 12.2721 percent statistical probability. Remainder divided between lesser likelihoods of, in order of decreasing probability: Arctic research, illegal immigration, fishing-fleet advance spotting, treasure hunting, pleasure cruising..." And so on, and so forth, from the vaguely possible to the down-right ridiculous. John had ceased truly listening somewhere after "Attack on shipping or port facilities". Ordinarily decisive, he now found himself on the sharp horns of a dilemma. International Rescue was not a police force. They existed not to prevent wars or stop crimes, but to save the lives of those who would otherwise have perished. Yet..., clearly there was more than a little danger to the citizens of Murmansk in this unknown submarine's secret errand. Question was, should he interfere, or not?


	8. Chapter 8: Olympic Gold

_A first race, and a medal )_

The 2065 Summer Olympics (_Postponed one year; the '28 Olympicstook placein 2029 due to a flu pandemic) _were held in Portland, Oregon, with the swimming events taking place in nearby Astoria. The European Union's swim team showed up three days before opening ceremonies; to settle in, get a last few laps under their belts, and work out their pre-show jitters.

On check-in they were given photo passes, which were to be worn about the neck for security reasons. At the same time, a code was added to their ID-chip display, officially altering their status from semi-pro, to Olympic athletes.

After check-in, it was time to get settled. The dorm rooms here were bigger than Madrid's, but the athletes were also packed in four to a unit, so there was much less actual space

Gordon shared room 276, in Block 17, with Royce, Erik and Damien. It looked rather like a bare-bones, white washed youth hostel with four low beds, two windows, a metal-railed balcony, and lots of wall space, which they immediately set about enlivening. Mere hours after arrival, the place was unrecognizable, done up with the flags and colors of their respective states. Everyone had brought a little something from home. Nor were they alone.

All around them, athletes from Asia, Africa, Australia and the Americas were doing the same, turning the Olympic Village into a wild maelstrom of language, color and food.

Block 17 was a big concrete building with three stories that ended up so draped with dark-blue, gold-starred flags that the edifice itself was all but smothered. It had to be. The Australians were directly across the way to the east, in block 19, while the Americans occupied block 21, and _their_ obnoxious displays could not be permitted to outdo the Union's. Matter of pride.

Rather to Gordon's surprise, the Olympics turned out to be a fortnight-long party, with sports thrown in. Everything was free, everyone was friendly; excited, strong and well-rested.

McMahon had timed his swimmers' taper perfectly. Months of exhausting workouts had honed them all to the bright-edged sharpness of surgical steel. Now, doing just a single lap a day until the preliminaries, Gordon and his teammates fairly glowed with leashed energy, the air about them all but crackling.

They'd been warned not to tire themselves going after the females, and for the most part, the swimmers complied. They sure did look, though. Royce had his eye on a fiery Brazilian volleyball player, Damien spotted a North African weight-lifter with big eyes and a beautiful accent, and Gordon fell hard for an exquisite little Catalonian gymnast. Erik simply spread himself about, maintaining email relations with half a dozen softball players and a bicycle racer. But first and foremost, they prepared for their events.

At first, all went well. Royce took a silver in the 50 meter "splash and dash", beating the Australian swimmer to the wall, and coming in just a hundredth of a second behind the American. It was a triumph of sorts, for no one had expected much from the Union's young and mostly untested swimmers. Then Damien won gold in the men's 100 meter backstroke, and bronze in the 200. The world began paying attention.

Finally, it was Gordon's turn. At 12:15 that Monday afternoon, he stood before the block at lane five, swinging his arms to loosen up for the 100 meter butterfly. He wore a black Speedo Fast-skin racing suit and goggles, but no cap. Too much pinching. The sun struck diamonds from the water's surface. A slight breeze lifted the hair from his forehead.

Alan and TinTin were somewhere out in the crowd, Erik in lane six, but at the moment Gordon was too focused to care. He always got this way before a meet; tense and blinkered.

From some foggy middle distance, a voice called, "Swimmers, to your blocks!"

He mounted the gritty, slightly slanted platform, eyes on the black line that lay wavering on the pool floor below.

"Swimmers, take your marks!"

Breathing harder, now, Gordon got into the down position, flexed and ready. All the other swimmers, even Erik, had disappeared from his consciousness, as had the crowd, his coach, everything but the water, and that black line.

The buzzer sounded, and Gordon exploded off the block almost before it registered. He made a powerful spring, hit the water with tremendous momentum, dove and immediately began the mighty, underwater dolphin kick and hip thrust that powered him into the lead. Fifteen meters under the surface and then he broke water and began pulling. His stroke was perfect, a thing of beauty, lifting him out of the water and forward with such grace and strength, it looked effortless. Up and down. Silence and crowd roar; sun dazzle and silver mist light. The water seemed to play along, springing him forward like a willing partner. He made it to the far wall in record time, touched, turned, and dove again. Five, six thrusts, and then he surfaced, still ahead, but the Australian, Reggie Clerk, was closing fast. Less than half a body-length between them.

"_No... you...don't!"_ Gordon thought, in time with his own great, lunging strokes. Digging deep, he summoned adrenaline, forced himself to move faster, and to hell with the consequences. No other race existed but this one, and it had to be won. If the first lap was speed and beauty, the last was raw ferocity. Meeting Clerk's challenge, he refused to yield another inch, holding off the Australian's last minute charge, and, incredibly, increasing his lead.

Floundering, Clerk began to fall back, having burnt himself out trying to push past Gordon. Erik Nilssen had been swimming a conservative race, staying ahead of the pack, but behind the two leaders, waiting for just such an opportunity. Now the young Swede darted past Clerk, and the three of them finished gold, silver, bronze. Gordon first to the wall, with a time of 50.04 seconds, followed by Erik and Clerk, with less than a tenth of a second between them.

Gasping, Gordon hung on to the edge and watched the scoreboard numbers, breaking into a grin as his time flashed up. He'd visualized winning many times, and had thought that he'd caper and shout when it happened. Instead, he simply waved acknowledgment to the crowd, then exhaled and went to the bottom, sinking into cool, peaceful silence.

Gordon had no clear memories of his birth mother, except underwater. There he could see two hands reaching out, a pair of lovely blue eyes half hopeful, half worried behind a plastic swim mask, and a soft cloud of long, blonde hair. All he had to do was reach her, and she'd pick him up.

...Only it was Royce and Erik who hauled him out of the water and tossed him at the rest of the team, whooping and screaming like schoolboys at a football match. Gordon was much bruised and rumpled by the time he and Erik reached the platform for the medal ceremony.

They and Reggie Clerk dipped their heads to receive, one at a time, their medals, then stood at attention as the Union's flag, dark blue with a circle of twelve golden stars, was raised to the top of the highest flagpole. The anthem ("Ode to Joy" recycled, actually, but nobody minded) filled the amphitheater, majestic and proud, while flashbulbs popped like fireworks, and people sang. Too much to take in all at once; in all the times he medaled afterward, it never got better than that, and he never found the words to describe it.


	9. Chapter 9: Rogue Torpedo

_A live fire exercise begins to go wrong._

_Hammerhead's _first live fire exercise took place on the American side of the polar ice cap, just northwest of Alaska. Their depth was 200 feet of frigid, unforgiving black water. Another nail-biter.

The Hellstorms were a great idea in theory, but they'd never actually been field tested, and only three successful launch and retrievals, followed by three destroyed targets, would establish the new torpedoes as the States' undersea weapon of choice. They certainly were fearsome.

Capable of generating a frictionless envelope of air, the super-sonic Hellstorms could not be outrun, nor evaded. Your best defense, the engineers joked, was prayer.

Once again, Captain Craig had the Conn, though his steering and sonar crews had changed. It was halfway through second watch, and the live fire sea trials would begin in a matter of minutes.

David Alvarez and Louis Peete were in the engine room, manning their emergency fire stations and waiting, like everyone else, for the next command. Around them _Hammerhead _seemed to shift and breathe like a living thing. The reactors hummed in their triple-thick casings. Steam, oil and water thrummed industriously through dozens of insulated pipes. Vibrations, faint creaks, the muffled pad of sneaker soles on painted metal, a scrap of conversation through an open hatch... Then the PA system crackled alive. The old man's voice, calm and steady, announced,

"All hands at full alert. Torpedo sea trials to commence with fire and retrieval. Stand by."

At the Conn station the word was given to load tube one.

"Load tube one, Conn, aye!" Came the reply, from the fire control officer, a sallow, steady young man with heady dreams of his own command. At his signal, the fish was locked and loaded. Chains and pulleys had long since been replaced by hydraulic lifts, but the process still required careful attention. No one really needed a live torpedo rolling about on the deck. As Captain Craig was so fond of repeating, "there's room for everything on a submarine except a mistake."

Now the word came down: "Attack center, Conn; flood tube one."

The fire control officer nodded as he repeated the command, forgetting that Craig couldn't see him.

"Flood tube one, Conn, aye."

The tube was pressurized next, equalizing the water inside and out. This was critical, as an error here could send a high-powered jet of sea water roaring in through the launch tube, sending _Hammerhead _straight to the bottom.

The attack center's heads-up display ticked off the rapid pressure change in so many hundred pounds-per-square-inch, showing green at last when the tube was fully pressurized. The fire control officer (Lt. James Pleasance, by name; fast and dangerous with his fists, miserable with women) relayed the news to his captain.

"Very good, Attack Center," the reply came back. "Open the hatch, and stand by to fire."

They had no target, at this point. Murmansk lay hundreds of miles behind, another success in a growing chain of proud achievements. All they were attempting now was the wire-guided launch and retrieval of a prototype torpedo. No need for targeting solutions, even. They'd fire it, cut off the motor remotely, then haul their fish back in with magnetic grapplers. Compared with sneaking around a busy, heavily guarded harbor, simplicity itself.

"Attack Center, Conn: _fire one!"_

Once again, Lt. Pleasance nodded, tapped a few keys on his touch pad, then hit the red firing button.

Back in the engine room, Alvarez and Peete shifted their stance slightly, feeling _Hammerhead _roll a bit as the Hellstorm thundered out of its tube. So far, so good. Grinning at his buddy, David Alvarez released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Beside him, Louis made an elaborately casual shoulder-brushing gesture, as though to say, "Ain't no thing, Bro. Just another day at the office."

Cloaking itself in a shroud of air, the Hellstorm went silver, kicked on, and jetted away at mach 1.

Pleasance smiled. "One away, Conn, aye. Hot, straight and..."

Then the Hellstorm began to turn.


	10. Chapter 10: The Word is Given

_In which the submarine's plight is made clear, and a rescue is planned..._

Predictably, things had gotten sort of crazy in room 276. The Canadian girls were in high spirits; one game away from gold. They were exuberant, to say the least, and tall. Very tall.

Meanwhile, Erik's latest care package contained several parcels of lutefisk, a sort of lye-drenched... jellied cod... snack. Which, ghastly though it was, still smelt better than surstromming. He actually got some takers for this one, including TinTin. .. (Erik's Scandinavian good looks may have had something to do with her sudden courage) ... but nobody went back for seconds. The evening ended when McMahon came stomping in shouting at the top of his lungs about competitions and the need for sleep. In a matter of minutes he'd thrown out the basketball players, the visitors, and especially, the fish.

"...That was nothing," Gordon admitted, as he walked Alan and TinTin out to the gate, later that night. "Back in Madrid, Erik's mum sent him a bit of comfort from home that included more food. He was pullin' it out of the package, when I noticed the cans had got all swollen. I told him I thought his tuna'd gone off a bit... cans aren't supposed t' breathe, no matter what he says... So he started arguin' with me an' put it down at the table. It exploded. The whole can, all over the room, like it was designed by the Swedish defense department, or something. No joke, they had to evacuate the dorm."

Alan laughed. "Holy cow! How did WNN's Olympic coverage miss that one? I can see the headlines now: Olympic training facility bombed! Athletes forced to flee foul fish!"

TinTin listened quietly, tightening the arm she'd placed about each of the boys' waists. She'd missed them despite herself, learning deportment and etiquette in lonely Paris. No one spoke her variety of French there, for one thing... and no one seemed to have time for a mere servant's daughter, no matter how pretty, or smart.

She wanted to go home. More, she wanted the boys home, too. Let them tease and pester ever so much. At least they cared. TinTin sighed, and forced herself to smile. If only her European education hadn't been a gift from Mr. Tracy...

Gordon saw them off at the security gate, giving a Alan a quick, rough embrace, and kissing TinTin's cheek. They'd get together again after the closing ceremonies, and this time, he promised, there'd be no weird fish.

He was halfway back to Block 17 when his wrist comm went off. Someone seized his arm before he could make a move to answer it, though, whipping him suddenly into the relative darkness of a side street.

"One of these days, Kid, it's gonna be for real," came a gruff, familiar voice, "and you're gonna end up trying to kick yourself while drowning in your own blood, all because you didn't pay attention."

Gordon pulled away from the man's grip, saying testily,

"I wasn't expectin' hostilities, Murphy. The Village is guarded."

The Seal snorted, more scornful than amused. "Yeah. They think they've got security. Kinda cute, actually." He was a hard-faced man, wiry and strong, but unexceptional to look at. Without the black makeup and dark clothing, Murphy might have blended in well at a used car lot, or a high school athletic department.

"But I'm not here to insult the local rent-a-cops, or to pay social calls, either. I need help. Umm.., this is '_off-' _off the record, understood?"

Gordon nodded silently. He and Murphy had first run into each other in Macedonia, where he'd come to appreciate the US Navy Seals' special brand of mayhem. Murphy went on: "We've got a sub down somewhere in the Chukchi Sea. The Navy's trying to find her, on the quiet. She was out there on her first sea trials... without, uh..., official status. Know what I mean? Anyway, um..., it's gonna take the brass awhile to locate and raise her, without letting the rest of the world in on the secret. Maybe too long. Those guys haven't got a lifetime supply of air, and God knows how deep they've gone. I'll... I'll be straight with you, Kid. I've got a personal stake in this." Murphy's grey eyes became troubled, suddenly, his voice growing quieter as he added, "My brother-in-law's on that boat. My sister thinks he's over in Pearl, at a desk. I'd be... much obliged if you rescue guys could see that she goes on thinking that." And then, spreading his hands slightly, "I don't know where else to turn."

Murphy had been instrumental in saving Virgil and Scott from the Hood, that time in Macedonia, and Gordon had no intention of letting him down, now. Saying,

"You're on, Murphy. We've got this," he tapped the wrist comm to John.

_Earlier that day, below the surface, somewhere far north..._

Despite all he could do, _Hammerhead_ was sinking. Captain Craig had gotten a swift head count. All at the Conn Station were safe and relatively well, with injuries limited to sprains and bruises, and one minor electrical burn. The galley had called in, their news not as good. Five men alive down there, two of them seriously injured. Habitation wasn't responding, but he'd heard from the wardroom, attack center, sonar, maneuvering, communications and engineering. Altogether, 98 out of 118 men accounted for. Now to get them home.

In the dim, flickery light of the Conn Station, every face was turned to his. All calm, all prepared to take whatever risks were required to save themselves, and their boat. _'Best crew in the fleet,'_ he thought, proudly, and began issuing commands.

"Mr. Morrisey, I need distance and course to the nearest stretch of continental shelf. As we appear to be headed for bottom, let's make it as shallow and close to shore as possible."

"Course to shelf, Sir. Aye!" The younger man immediately turned to the navigator, huddling with the lad over a fitful, half-powered computer screen.

"Engineering," Craig called out, reaching for a dangling mike, "how much have we got, and how long can you give it to me?"

Lt. Commander Powers came back over the crackling microphone, "She's shaken up, but still glowing, Sir. Water level's under control and the wiring's patched up. One half power with confidence, Sir, full at a pinch, but not for long. Too much stress to the hull. As for time... she'll run until she touches bottom, Sir."

"Very good, Mr. Powers. Keep her lit, and we'll handle the rest."

"Aye, Sir."

To the communications officer, he said,

"Comm, fire a distress buoy. Coded message giving our status and location. Do not name the boat, or directly request Naval or Coast Guard assistance. Just get the word out."

The comm officer nodded, and got to work. "Aye, Sir. Coding distress signal."

To the Maneuvering Room, he said, "Maneuvering, Conn; how's she answering the helm?"

A young seaman's voice came back, a little uncertainly, "Sir, we've got rudder and planes, still. A little sluggish 'cause of the weight and the hole, but she's answering." Sam Battles, it was; a teenager from Detroit who'd gotten his dolphins pinned on just eight months before. He'd taken over the maneuvering room after Lt. Conroy was shocked unconscious, then rewired the helm single-handedly, bringing steering back on line.

"Very good, Maneuvering Room."

The pumps, he knew, were still working, pushing water out of the boat almost as fast as it was coming in. They were going down. That was a given, but he still had some control over where, and how fast, and that, with the buoy, might just be enough to save them.

_At the Olympic Village:_

"US Navy, huh?" John mused aloud. "That explains a lot." Then, to his younger brother's transmitted image, "I've already notified Scott and Virgil. Thunderbird 2 is on her way, with pod 4 loaded up. She'll pick you up on Mt. Hood, Longitude 121.82 degrees north, Latitude 45.55 degrees west, in... thirty minutes. You shouldn't have to enter the water yourself, but get into your suit anyway, just in case."

Gordon nodded in reply, adding, "Alan and TinTin are knockin' about Portland; come t' see a few events. Bring 'em along, you think?"

John considered a moment. Alan, at fourteen and a half, was the youngest of his brothers. Fifteen-year-old TinTin didn't even have a pilot's license, though she'd been out on a few missions. He hated to put the kids at risk, but had a gut feeling that Virgil and Gordon were going to need help. So...,

"Yeah. Call them up and have them make ready. And proceed with extreme caution, Gordon. I'm serious. Military security's involved here, which is never a good thing for us. I haven't got any schematics on the sub, even. This is major black ops. Be ready for anything."

"F.A.B., John. We'll be careful." Tapping off the comm, Gordon turned to face Murphy, still lurking like a serpent in a darker bit of shadow. "Can I con a lift t' Mount Hood?"


	11. Chapter 11: Over and Under

_The rescue is underway._

Not quite forty-five minutes later, Gordon, Alan and TinTin were in Thunderbird 2, headed north at the best speed Virgil could manage. Taciturn as ever, the big, dark-haired pilot had contented himself with a congratulatory 'gold medal' back-slap before ordering Gordon and the others to strap themselves in and hang on; the Chukchi sea a mere 20 minutes away.

About halfway to the danger zone, Gordon began running scenarios through his head. The sub had still been moving when he'd last spoken to John, fighting to reach the continental shelf before her power cut out completely. If she made it, the brothers faced a precarious underwater rescue mission. If not.., if the sub sank beyond crush depth... they'd be able to do no more than recover the bodies.

Virgil seemed to guess what was going through his head. Glancing away from his controls for a moment, he said,

"We'll make it. I haven't lost a paying customer, yet."

Gordon shook his head, smiling a little.

"We don't _get_ paid, Virgil."

"Mere technicality, Kiddo. Anyway, I'm organizing a union. Want to join?"

"Depends," Gordon responded, with feigned seriousness. "What're the dues? Like I said, my pay's seriously in arrears."

"Cigarettes?" Virgil was still (sort of) trying to kick the habit, and he'd managed to at least stop obviously carrying them.

"Sorry. I don't smoke."

Virgil's sigh was genuinely tragic. Shoulders slumping, he said,

"Didn't figure. How 'bout gum?"

"Not me, but TinTin 'll have a pack or ten about her, bet on it." Unstrapping, Gordon rose from the co-pilot's seat and made his way back to Alan and TinTin.

"Got any gum, Angel?" He asked the slender, blue-suited girl. "Virgil's about t' light up a seat cushion."

She giggled, reached into a belt compartment, and dug out a package of "raspberry blast" cotton-candy bubble gum.

"Here! But tell him he owes me, and I don't accept payment in artwork or music, either!"

Turning to regard her from the next seat over, Alan began to scowl.

"And just how's he supposed to pay you?" The youngest Tracy demanded, instantly jealous. TinTin raised a hand, palm outward.

"Te calm, Mon Petit!" She replied, once again frigidly sophisticated. "The _adults _will handle this."

"Yeah. Right. Too bad you aren't one... _Delphine."_

TinTin's dark, slanted eyes grew dangerously narrow.

"Don't you ever...EVER! ...call me that, _Alan Tracy!"_

Good ol' Alan; smooth as ever. Gordon shook his head, pocketed the gum, and left the two of them behind to fight it out. Up in the cockpit, he handed the stuff over to Virgil. Then it was time to mount up and hit the water.

"Be safe down there," Virgil told him, before he set off. "John's got the whole region declared hazardous to navigation, and he's re-routing all the robot traffic, but there's always one or two idiots around that nobody calculated on. Call right away if anything even starts to look funny."

"Got it, Virgil. Be seein' you."

Virgil turned back to his controls as his younger brother headed out the rear cockpit hatch. Calling in to the desk, he said,

"Island base, from Thunderbird 2. We are over danger zone. Will drop pod 4 in ten minutes from... mark. What's the word, Scott?"

Moments later, his oldest brother's face appeared on the right view screen, frowning slightly. Scott Tracy looked worried, and bone-tired. With Gordon and Alan at the Olympics, John in space, and their father in Manhattan, chairing a board meeting, he and Virgil were pulling triple duty.

"I read you, Virge." Scott responded. "I got in touch with Father about an hour ago, and he's working to call off the World Navy. Shouldn't be anybody out there but you, and maybe the Seals." Then, as another worry assailed him, "Stay in constant touch with Gordon, will you? This one's going to be tricky."

"F.A.B., Scott. I'll stick closer than his conscience." Just then, a signal light flashed up on his instrument panel. Gordon had figuratively 'kicked the tires and lit the fires', and was ready to go. "Lowering to drop height...," Virgil murmured to Thunderbird 2. "Seas are pretty rough..., forty foot waves, looks like... Let's give him another ten yards."

In fact, the weather was too foul for most rescue craft, with high winds and driving, nearly horizontal, sleet. A helicopter would have had severe trouble holding position, and many dive ships would have been swamped. Thunderbird 2 shrugged it off, as a mastodon might have lowered its mighty head against a snow squall. Thunderbird 4 would be all right, as well, once in the water. The problem lay in the drop. Flipping a comm switch, Virgil stopped chewing TinTin's high-voltage bubble gum and said,

"Ready?"

"Fire away," Gordon responded lightly, whatever nerves he might be experiencing well hidden.

"F.A.B. I'm gonna take us down a little further, Gordon. Give you less of a thrill."

"Awww...! Y' _do_ care!"

"See what happens when you join the union? Lower drops, higher pay, and in-flight snacks, every time. Okay, Kid, brace."

Thunderbird 2 had roared down to within a hundred yards of the turbulent ocean. At this altitude, her impellers dug a great, bowl-shaped cavity in the water below. He'd have liked to go lower, but pod 4 required a certain amount of clearance, and Gordon had dropped from worse.

Virgil hit the switch just as TinTin and Alan came forward, hurling his brother to the lightless depths below.

'_I spend too much damn time in free-fall!' _Gordon decided, as the bottom literally dropped out of his universe. He and his seat parted company, briefly, his heavy safety straps all that prevented him from striking the overhead. Thunderbird 4 had windows, but the pod didn't, so he'd no visuals to guide him. Just that stomach-wrenching plummet, followed by...

_**WHAMMMMMM!**_

The entire pod rang like a vast bell as it hit water, then began tipping and sliding; up, down, around and sometimes through the waves, which felt a lot bigger than they'd looked.

Wasting no time, he triggered 4's launch sequence. The pod door dropped open, its tracked interior converting to a slipway. One brief glance through the opening convinced Gordon that he was better off in the water than on it. _'Rough seas'_ was a criminal understatement.

Throttling up, Gordon sent the boxy, thirty-foot sub sliding along its rails and out into the maelstrom. _Impact_; softer than the first, then a rush of bubbles and a slight creaking noise as the ocean tightened its fist on his rapidly submerging craft. Gordon hit the comm switch, meaning to call in while he still could.

"Virgil, I'm down," he reported. "Following John's coordinates to the wreck site. I'll launch a comm buoy and let you know what I find when I get there."

"Right. Transmit as long as you can, Gordon. I'll have Alan monitor this channel in case you need an assist. And stay alert down there. We may not be the only ones looking for the 'wreck'. Understood?"

"Stop worryin', Grandad, and get the grapples ready! I know what I'm doin'!" The trouble with being second-youngest was, nearly everyone felt they'd some sort of God-given right to worry, nag and coddle. Funny thing, though..., if people hadn't constantly been reminding him, Gordon would have had a hard time recalling how young he really was.

About seventy feet below the surface the turbulence ceased. He still had a strong current to contend with, but the pounding had let up, allowing him to extend his lights, and the sub's mechanical arms. There was a force field of sorts, too, but it drew a lot of power, and had to be reserved for crush-depth situations, or rapid escapes.

'Piloting' his craft with two levers ( left for plane, right for rudder), a throttle and buoyancy control pedal, Gordon continued his descent. It was dark down there, and terribly cold. Brains had rigged Thunderbird 4's lights to track Gordon's eye and head movements. Wherever he looked, the lights would point. Helpful, but still rather like exploring Carlsbad Caverns with a cigarette lighter. If it hadn't been for John's coordinates, he might have searched for months without finding anything but drifting long lines and bathypelagic monsters.

"Hey, Bro!" Alan's cheery voice crackled over the comm. He'd be losing signal soon. "How's it going?"

"Nothing yet..., should be gettin' close, though. Wait a bit..., I think I might have found somethin'..." There was the continental shelf, looming like a great, dark cliff above the murky abyssal plain. It looked like another planet down there, jelly-pale shimmering creatures, weird growths and all.

But something else..., a long, skewed shape, terribly out of place..., had caught his eye. Focus narrowed like he was waiting for the start of a race, Gordon moved in for a closer look, hardly aware he was manipulating controls rather than swimming.

"Oh..., bloody hell," he breathed. He'd found her.

"What!" Alan called over the comm, barely audible. "Gordon, wh... ing... on?"

Firing the comm buoy, Gordon continued.

"Got her, Alan. She's heeled over on her starboard side, at th' edge of th' shelf, balanced... About 200 meters down. Hang on, movin' in a bit closer."

His lights tracked up and down along the wounded submarine's length, pushing back darkness as Thunderbird 4 explored the damage. Gordon could see no sign of the explosion John had mentioned. Possibly she'd settled with the hole bottom most, those compartments having flooded first. Her hull was dented and scraped, he noticed, as though she'd bounced along the shelf's edge before coming to rest. More or less intact, though. Now for the painfully scary part.

"Goin' in to establish contact, Alan. Keep you posted."

"Gotcha, Gordon." The comm buoy was up and functioning, delivering Alan's words like he was right there in the cockpit. "Play it safe, and smart."

"F.A.B." Like his older brothers, Gordon kept his real emotions pretty well hidden. But searching for survivors always tied an ice-cold knot in his stomach. Thinking, _'Please answer,' _he inched closer, extended a mechanical arm, and tapped upon the hull where the Conn Station ought to be.

Nothing, but then again, his engines might have been too loud, or the hydrophones too low. Throttling down as far as he could without being carried off by the current, Gordon turned the hydrophones up and tried again, a little farther forward, this time. Three taps... pause...

'_Clang... clang... clang'_

A reply! Loud and clear as church bells. Someone was alive in there, and able to respond.

"Contact established, Alan. Tell Virgil I'm negotiatin' a contract."

"Huh?" His younger brother sounded honestly puzzled, but Gordon could hear Virgil chuckling in the background.

"Fifty cents a head," He heard the pilot respond. "One time discount rate."

Getting back to business with a lighter heart, Gordon tapped upon the hull again, using Morse code.

'.. .-. .-.-.-' (IR _full stop_) Then, '... — .- – .-. -.- ..–..' (How many?)

Came back the tapped out reply, ' -. -.. .-.-.-' (Ninety-eight _full stop)_

"Ninety-eight survivors, Alan," Gordon relayed quickly. "If we stay with our first plan, I'll be liftin' them out for days. Might have to grapple her up, at that."

"There's a ship on its way, 'accidentally on purpose'," Alan told him. "The _USS Hercules. _John got it worked out. Transport back to wherever will be no problem, once we just get 'em out of there."

"Right. Thanks. I'll pass that along."

Back to tapping, as slimy, dark, lamp-eyed things encountered his lights and fled.

'-.-. .-. -.- — ..- .-. . .-.-. ... .- ... .-.-. ... ..–..' (Can you reach a hatch?)

Thunderbird 4 was equipped to air-lock dock with most sub-surface craft. This one might be different, though. Being a secret prototype, its specs were unknown, and couldn't be planned for. Also, its position presented a major obstacle. He was accustomed to approaching from above, not sideways. And there was the current, fierce and fast.

'-. — .-.-.- ... — – . - .-. .- .–. .–. . -.. .-.-.-' (No _full stop _Some trapped _full stop)_

As he'd feared. Gordon paused for a long moment, thinking furiously. No way to attach lines, except magnetically..., and how well would they hold against that sort of tonnage? He'd have one shot, at best. The wounded lass below wouldn't likely survive repeated attempts to raise her. Question was, where to place the lines? Needing advice, he imaged the submarine and sent the pictures up to John. As he was waiting for a reply, he heard again from the trapped submariners.

'-.-. –.- ..–.. -.-. –.- ..–..' (CQ? CQ?)

_-anybody out there-_

'... - .. .-.. .-.. ... . .-. . .-.-.-. — - –. .. ...- .. -. –. ..- .–. .-.-.- .–. .-.. .-. -... .-.-.-'

(Still here _full stop _Not giving up _full stop _Plan B _full stop)_

After consulting with John and Virgil, the rescue plan fell out this way; Thunderbird 2 would get as low as she could and drop her magnetic grappling cables. There were only four, so Gordon would have to position them precisely. Then, after Thunderbird 4 was clear, Virgil would begin a slow, steady ascent, raising the stricken sub from her precarious, cliff's edge perch. At the surface, they'd transfer the men off to the waiting _Hercules._

Gordon relayed all this to _Hammerhead's_ spokesman, then got to work. It was getting on toward dawn, upstairs, so he'd have to hurry. Security, from the US Navy's perspective, was paramount.


	12. Chapter 12: A watery Grave

_Aboard the stricken sub:_

"IR?" Captain Craig had asked, honestly stumped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Morrisey straightened from the CO2 absorption canister he was opening, a slightly incredulous smile spreading across his unshaven face.

"International Rescue...!" He blurted. Then, as the captain looked around at him, "My kid's a big fan. She's got a clipping scrapbook, and a couple of mock-up rescue vehicles. Used to tease her about it all the time, but I never thought..."

Craig smiled a little. "Guess you owe her an apology, Sailor," he said, preparing to tap out a response, "...And a new Thunderbird toy."

Momentary lightness aside, the captain was deeply worried. His surviving crew had garnered a whole new set of shocks and contusions after their bone-rattling touchdown. The air was growing dank and thick, as well, necessitating the lighting of an "oxygen candle", and the opened lime canister. Time was running out.

Power had gone down entirely just before their crash, killing lights, air filtration and communications. He'd lost contact with most of the other compartments, but refused to believe that they hadn't made it. _Hammerhead's _awkward position had worsened their plight, for the flooded, pipe crusted bulkhead was now their deck. Moving about was a dangerous business. Two of his men had injured themselves further blundering through the submerged, oily labyrinth, and there was no place to set the injured or to comfortably rest. Worse, the water level had begun to rise again. Somewhere, _Hammerhead_ had sprung another leak. They needed out, fast.

'_Hell,' _Craig thought, _'they get us out of this, I'll buy the kid a set of rescue toys, myself.'_


	13. Chapter 13: Found

_The rescue attempt is made:_

Gordon collected the cables one at a time, dove the long two hundred meters, and attached the magnets; two toward the bow, two further back. Following John's advice, he spaced them as evenly as possible, trying to spread out the stress. They welded themselves to the hull with loud, basso profundo thuds; great, heavy trolling magnets powerful enough to dredge up a shipwreck.

When the lines were attached, Gordon called up his brothers.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 4: She's good t' go, Virgil. Give me a minute or two t' get clear, and you can haul away."

"F.A.B., Gordon," The husky pilot came back. "Watch yourself. John tells me we've got company coming. World Navy ballistic missile sub, looks like. Aircraft, too. Secret's out, I'm afraid. Time to wrap this production up and head for home."

"Right. Thanks f'r the heads up." As he reversed his engines, backing away from the slowly bubbling wreck, Gordon cut his lights and keyed up passive sonar. Actively looking for a downed attack sub, the World Navy missile cruiser would probably start "pinging", meaning he'd hear them coming long before they heard him. His escape wasn't the problem, though... _Hammerhead's _was.

"Virgil, I've got an idea," he called up, suddenly. "I'm going t' try drawin' the WN sub off. If I sneak toward her along the shelf, then set up a racket like a lot of sailors knockin' about f'r attention, she might follow me. Buy you a bit more time, anyhow."

A rather lengthy pause ensued. Then,

"Gordon, Scott says go ahead, but get the hell outta Dodge before she gets within firing range. Only thing you've got going for you is speed, Kiddo. No playing chicken with a locomotive, got it?"

"Right. Sure. Soul of discretion, etc."

"I mean it, Gordon. Play it smart!"

He didn't bother to answer. A touch to the rudder brought Thunderbird 4 around, and a bit of a listen indicated his direction. Silently wishing _Hammerhead_ good luck, Gordon headed for the oncoming behemoth.


	14. Chapter 14: Plan A

_Meanwhile, overhead:_

Things were getting hot upstairs, as well. A squadron of World Government fighter-bombers had appeared on Thunderbird 2's scanners. Alerted by _Hammerhead's _distress beacon, they'd been sent to assist in the capture of a wounded illegal sub, only to find a massive, radar-invisible cargo lifter in their way. Their orders were to secure the area by any means necessary. The boys, of course, had other ideas.

While Virgil concentrated on a slow, rock-steady ascent, Alan called up their first line of defense.

"Hey, John? We've got..."

"I see them, Alan. Hold on."

The fighter craft, all twenty of them, were blazing in from the southeast, at full alert. Their missiles were hot, and locked on. John raised an eyebrow.

"A world united is a world at peace, huh?" he quoted sardonically. "Well, you asked for it."

Hacking into the World Government's orbital security system, he turned their own defenses against them. The satellite shield contained hulking, weapons-grade lasers with independent targeting and adjustable power settings. Hitting the computer, John assigned a laser to each fighter plane, setting the first blast to give them a brief, blinding dazzle... and a show.

Twenty streaks of blistering red light shot across empty space, burned through cloud and sleet, and onto the pilot's canopies, painting an eye-searing image of a skull and crossed bones all across the glass. Startled, the squadron broke formation, planes veering blindly off in half a dozen directions.

Their leader got his men under control again in a matter of minutes, ordering them to re-engage the target. The squadron reformed, a little raggedly, and came around for another pass.

"Still interested?" John shook his head. "Alright, then. Round two."

He powered the lasers up a notch, and fired again. This time, the beams penetrated the planes' canopies, placing a glowing red bull's-eye on each pilot's chest. The warning sufficed. The squadron banked off at once, realizing that whoever had seized control of the defense lasers could just as easily drill a hole through an engine... or a pilot..., from complete safety. They triggered afterburners and scattered with indecent haste, full of stories that were only going to get bigger, and wilder, with each re-telling.

"Whoa!" Alan exulted, as the WorldGov fighters thundered away, "That was cool! Can you do my initials?"


	15. Chapter 15: Murphey's Law

_Murphy's law..._

Gordon had situated himself about twenty miles further south, at a crumbling outcrop of the continental shelf. Cutting off his engines, he settled Thunderbird 4 into the frigid muck, unstrapped and got to his feet. The port bulkhead sported several tool bins and a small storage compartment. All were print-locked; only Gordon, Scott or Brains could open them.

From bin two, Gordon retrieved a heavy, titanium-steel spanner. Just the thing for those last minute underwater repairs, or signaling a ballistic missile sub. Picking a spot on the deck where he thought Brains was least likely to notice a few scratches, Gordon went to work. No need to be fancy, he decided; just a basic, international distress call. Three loud taps, repeated at intervals until someone came looking.

It happened sooner than he expected. One minute he was rapping the spanner against the deck, wondering how Virgil and Alan were making out with _Hammerhead,_ and the next he was nearly hurled from his seat by an enormous, ultra-low-frequency sonar pulse. Thunderbird 4 vibrated like a tuning fork for a full thirty seconds. Something pale and wispy which had been undulating past the view screen was shaken to paste as Gordon looked on, stunned himself by the throbbing, world-filling noise.

The pile-driver struck again, just as its massive wielder rumbled up from the abyss like the Midgard Serpent. Unbelievably, they'd snuck up on him. Using the dense, cold water of the basin as a shield, they'd passively tracked his tapping, then hammered a sonar pulse right on top of him. All at once, Gordon was in serious trouble.

Reacting instinctively, he triggered Thunderbird 4's dark-energy "force field". Only just in time. A web-work of fine cracks had appeared in the window glass, then dozens of tiny, high-pressure leaks.

His head hurt too badly for coherent thought, but Brains had run him through so many dangerous scenarios, under so many different conditions, that Gordon reacted as though programmed.

Engines fired up..., field strength to maximum..., throttle to full... floor it, and go...

With the force field on, chunky little Thunderbird 4, International Rescue's bright yellow, underwater Volvo, became suddenly streamlined and frictionless. She shot away from her monstrous attacker like a meteor, leaving the giant World Navy sub groping for shadows in the cold and bitter dark.

_Overhead:_

Thunderbird 2 gained altitude so slowly, her progress was all but invisible. Virgil dared not use the winches, fearing to burn out a motor and tear _Hammerhead_ apart with unequal lift. Nothing to do, then, but muscle her up the hard way, inch by hard-won inch.

Trusting Alan to keep watch, he concentrated on his altimeter, responding to wind shear and sudden updrafts with a thousand swift, instinctive corrections. Although surrounded by computers and gadgetry, Virgil was an old-fashioned, "seat-of-the-pants" pilot. He knew his beloved 'Bird inside and out, and flew her the way most people breathed; without visible effort.

For thirty minutes all he seemed to do was chew gum and stare at the altimeter, a light sheen of sweat coating his brow. Then, with a satisfied grunt,

"Alan, tell _Hercules _to launch the zodiacs. Their sub breaks water in five and one-quarter minutes."

"Gotcha." Alan hit the comm to the US Navy sub tender, his voice unconsciously deepening as he relayed the information. Leaning over his shoulder a few minutes later, TinTin swept Thunderbird 2's floodlights back and forth across the turbulent ocean below.

"Shouldn't Gordon be back by now?" The girl ventured, frowning worriedly. Virgil cut in before Alan could reply, muttering,

"Might be down there still, playing musical sea-mounts with Gargantua..., but it couldn't hurt to call. Try the...,"

Too late. A sleek, silver spear shot out of the water like a leaping dolphin, crashed back onto the surface, then began slicing through the waves toward Thunderbird 2 at over two-hundred-fifty knots.

Cutting a wide arc around the laboring zodiacs, Thunderbird 4 dropped its sparking shield and came to a halt beside her big green sister, skipping like a flung stone. Stubby and square..., and yellow..., she was a welcome sight.

"There he is," Alan grinned. "Had to put on a show, is all."

Actually, Gordon's only intent had been to surface before anything else went wrong. Downing a handful of aspirin with an orange juice chaser, he patted 4's beeping, blinking instrument panel.

"Sorry, Luv," he told her. "If it means anythin' to you, I'm not doin' much better, m'self. But Brains 'll have us both put t' rights soon. Promise."

For the others, though, he was all clownish confidence. "Thunderbird 4, at your service," he called over, "Bit battered, but ready t' go."

"Glad you're okay," Virgil replied, never taking his gaze from the controls. Just twenty feet to go. "What 'd you do with your buddies?"

Gordon scowled. The divine ancestor of all headaches was still wringing his head like a sponge, and he had the World Navy to thank for it.

"Tossed a couple of noisemakers over th' edge as I headed topside, and they can chase 'em till judgement day, for all of me."

"Good job." Then, "Okay..., here goes. Gordon, I need you over by _Hammerhead, _assisting with the extractions. Need to wrap this up and get clear in thirty minutes, tops."

"Right. On my way." Gordon made no mention of his condition, or Thunderbird 4's. As long as he wasn't called upon to submerge, all would be well.


	16. Chapter 16: Risen

_The submarine is raised, and a rescue party launched._

Captain Craig had tapped out the rescue plan with a pipe-wrench of his own, hoping that the sound would penetrate to any compartment that still contained survivors. All who still could were to don cold-weather survival suits and prepare to make for an outside hatch as soon as the water level dropped low enough. To Craig's immense relief, he got quite a few replies. His crew was ready. Nothing left now but to wait, stand ready, and pray.

With a final, roaring heave, Thunderbird 2 powered _Hammerhead _to the surface. The ocean rolled off her dark flanks in great foaming sheets, revealing the crippling gut-wound in her starboard side that had sent _Hammerhead_ to the bottom. So much for the easy bit. The partly-flooded sub became exponentially heavier as more of her left the water, straining 2's mighty engines to their limit.

"Make it quick, Gordon!" Virgil grunted, fighting to keep his Bird in the air. "I'm on full burn, and she's still slipping!"

Guided by Thunderbird 2's brilliant floodlights, _Hercules_ had launched dozens of big, powerful Grand Raid Zodiacs. These now swarmed about _Hammerhead_ like remoras attaching to a shark. Catching up to the rescue flotilla, Thunderbird 4 swooped alongside and prepared to assist.

Several escape hatches popped open along the length of _Hammerhead's _tilted deck and long sail. Men scrambled silently forth and began dropping into the water, flailing and grunting as they hit the bone-cold waves. Hauled aboard the Zodiacs by willing hands, dozens were rescued in a matter of minutes, while overhead Thunderbird 2 continued her heroic, screaming lift.

On a sudden impulse, Gordon sped around and approached the hole, shocked momentarily breathless by the great, twisted, inward pointing gash that had laid open _Hammerhead's _flank. It was a miracle she'd made it fifty feet, he realized, much less all the way to the continental shelf.

Thinking, _'Hell of a sharp design...!' _Gordon scanned the exposed decks for possible refugees. There! Movement at the bottom. Knee deep in icy brine, a couple of men were nerving themselves to jump, while the water sucked in and out around them. Pulling Thunderbird 4 in as close as he could, Gordon popped open the lower airlock hatch, climbed through, then shut and dogged that one and repeated the process with the upper hatch. Cumbersome, but necessary. The seas without were incredibly rough. In the magnesium glare of Thunderbird 2's floodlights, the windswept waves that menaced the little sub looked like grey-green, spuming mountains. An open airlock would have swamped her in seconds. Some of the nearby Zodiacs seemed to be in trouble as well, Gordon noticed, as he wrestled open the upper hatch.

It was pure, frigid hell out there. Winds battered and howled, sleettore at exposed skin like serrated blades. Wave after giant wave crashed over Thunderbird 4, hurling her repeatedly against _Hammerhead's_ split and oozing side.

Gordon was wearing an insulated arctic "dry suit", and still, ten seconds after venturing into the weather he was drenched through and half-frozen. Didn't blame the men in the hole for hesitating, but the longer they stood there arguing, the closer he came to being swept away and drowned. Clinging to a handy mooring brace, he attempted to signal the sailors, but they appeared not to see.

Finally, Gordon had had enough. Waiting until a particularly enormous wave lifted Thunderbird 4, he threw himself through the gash and onto a section of sharply buckled decking. The crest of the wave swept over him, slamming Gordon clear across the compartment and into a bank of lifeless machinery. When it receded at last, he got to his feet, sodden and gasping. One deck above him, in a less submerged compartment , the men leaned over a bent railing and offered Gordon a hand up.

Mid-thirties, Caucasian, medium to large build; both officers, or high-rated enlisted men, by their speech and bearing, and both near frantic with worry.

"_Lt. Commander Powers!" _The dark-haired submariner introduced himself, shouting to be heard over the thrum and boom of ocean and gale,_ "Engineering! We were coming up from below, got blocked and decided to head for the hole! They were right behind us! The Chief was helping Alvarez along until we reached the ladder! Now they've disappeared, fallen behind or gone another way! Don't know wether to go back or assume they've made it to an escape hatch!"_

The other man, powerfully built, tow-headed and grim, clearly blamed himself for losing his comrades. _"Ronald Frank, Chief of the Boat, and I ain't leaving till we find out for sure they've gotten out, Sir! You go on!"_

"_No, Chief! So help me, It's both or neither!"_

Keenly aware that Thunderbird 2 was slowly losing her fight to maintain altitude, Gordon interrupted the argument.

"_Gentlemen, y'r both goin'!" _He shouted them down._ "This set up won't hold f'r long, and y'r endangerin' the lives of others who'll not leave till everyone's accounted for! Now, point me in th' right direction, and I'll go after your shipmates m'self!" _

It was difficult, but he finally convinced Powers and Frank to go, bidding them wait in Thunderbird 4 till he got back with the two missing men. (With the controls locked, they wouldn't be able to start her up, and Gordon seriously doubted they'd brought along their cameras.) Powers was philosophical, accepting that they ought to let the professionals handle the situation, but the Chief's parting comment was,

"_Professional, my ass! He's a kid! I've wrung more seawater outta my socks than he's sailed under!"_

Gordon had better things to do than argue, though. Hustling the two of them off the boat and into the water, he turned the way Powers and Frank had indicated, and started looking, making subconscious mental notes as he went along. (Anything new, any twist on current technology, would interest Brains, who prided himself on staying far ahead of his fellow engineers.)

He pulled himself along the crumpled accessway, feeling it shudder and sway beneath his feet with every step. _Hammerhead's _orientation, starboard side down and dripping wet, made each move a calculated risk. His wrist comm buzzed several times, but Gordon ignored it, too intent on inching forward to talk. He'd gone maybe twenty meters when he found them.

Climbing painfully along the torn and slanted deck, an exhausted young sailor with a wounded man across his shoulders was making for the hole. His breathing clearly audible, the fellow was gasping encouragement to himself, along with the US Navy fight song, all the while addressing comments to his unconscious friend.

"Up here!" Gordon called, leaning out and down to offer a hand. The submariner looked up suddenly, smiled a little, and said,

"Yeah, okay. Just... just give me... a second... to get my breath...," Then, heaving his friend upward as high as he could while still clinging to the deck, he added, "Grab hold of Louis..., and I'll scoot up after. Thanks, Man."

Gordon got a big handful of the unconscious sailor's uniform, and hauled him up to the next compartment, saying,

"No problem, Sir."

The other man scrambled up to join him, panting hoarsely. Shaking his head, he said, "Not 'Sir'. I work for a living. Petty Officer Third Class, David Alvarez. Glad to meet you."

Gordon shook his hand, smiling back. "Gordon Tracy. Same here." Then, "Not that I haven't enjoyed tourin' the promenade deck, Dave, but we'd better make f'r an exit before your friends get tired of waitin' and try t' bust back in. Had t' just about throw 'em out as it was." For some reason, it was very important to him that Alvarez not think he'd been deserted.

"Yeah,_" _David panted, picking up his friend's legs while Gordon seized him beneath the arms. Slowly, they began crab-walking along the tilted accessway, Louis slung between them. "We slipped on a ladder and went under, again," Alvarez explained. "By the time I got us out of the water, the other guys were out of sight. Didn't want to risk them getting hurt or killed coming back for us, so I just followed, best I could. Sure am glad of the help, though."

"Well," Gordon responded, thinking of Murphy, "They ordered up the full service rescue. All amenities included."

By this time, his wrist comm's alert had climbed in pitch and volume to the point that Gordon was ready to rip it off and throw it away. Alan must've been all but laying on the button.

"I know..., I know!" Gordon muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the torpedo hole. Fifteen, twenty more feet, maybe. He could already feel the cold wind knifing through the gash, hear the waves thundering against the hull. _Almost there...! _

Neither Alvarez nor his buddy wore survival suits, Gordon noticed with a sinking heart. Best spend as little time in the water as possible, then. At those temperatures, an unprotected man would be lucky to survive ten minutes.

At last they reached the hole, where worse news awaited them. Some cruel vagary of the weather had driven Thunderbird 4 hundreds of meters away, spinning and sliding through the floodlit night as helplessly as a leaf on a waterfall. Right. Time for plan... what was he on, now? C? D? _Bloody W?_ Nothing for it now but to tether themselves together, jump, swim for the vanishing sub, and hope nothing else went wrong. David helped him find a bit of cord, which they used to fasten the lot of them together, not too tightly, and then Gordon tapped hurriedly on his wrist comm. Too much noise to get a clear message out, but at least he could let his brothers know he was still alive.

Waiting for a tall wave crest, Gordon and David jumped out together, Louis supported between them.

"Crap!" Virgil muttered, and many other phrases a good deal less delicate. _Hammerhead, _her stern completely flooded, was close to sinking, andshe'd drag Thunderbird 2 right along with her, if he didn't release the cables soon. Only, he couldn't. Not without word from Gordon that the wreck was clear. Five minutes earlier he'd gotten a brief comm signal, but what it signified, Virgil had no idea.

"Gordon, dammit, where are you!"The pilot growled. To Alan and TinTin he said, "I'll hold her as long as I can. You two get down to the winch room, in the meantime, and search the water for survivors."

In the not unlikely event that he had to ditch, Virgil wanted the kids as close to an escape hatch as possible. Better to lie than to argue about it, though. No time. To his immense relief they went, eager to locate Gordon, and take part in the rescue effort.

Moments later, _Hammerhead _slipped again, the great trolling magnets scraping long, ragged claw marks in her tortured hull. Only her bow was above water now... and Thunderbird 2, struggling like a netted falcon, was wrenched another fifty feet closer to the ravenous ocean below.

_In the ocean:_

Water so cold, it hurt clear through, and so terribly wind-blown, you couldn't cough it out long enough to breathe. He went numb almost immediately, only just managing to turn over onto his back and start swimming.

They'd stayed together, thanks to the tether, Gordon clutching the back of Louis' collar to keep his head above water as he and David Alvarez made for Thunderbird 4. The weather had gone from bad, to blinding.

At the bottom of each trough, temporarily sheltered from wind and sleet, Gordon managed to blink the bitter water out of his eyes and gasp for breath. Then, as each towering crest flung him back into the screaming gale, he looked about for Thunderbird 4. But every wave seemed to drive them further apart. Soon, he gave up on reaching the little sub, concentrating instead on keeping them all afloat, and alive; Swimming harder than he'd dreamed possible, just to keep from going under.

He could no longer feel his arms and legs, but kept them moving anyway, more by rote, exhaustive training than anything else. And all the while, Gordon struggled with the eerie feeling that the ocean did not wish to be robbed of her prizes, that he was engaged in a savage battle for the lives of these men... and losing. Thunderbird 2, and his brothers, were their only hope. If only someone saw.

_Aboard Thunderbird 2:_

Alan bit his lip, switching the winch room's scanners to infrared. The noise and vibration of Thunderbird 2's groaning engines was incredible. He could barely focus, despite the urgent need to help. Gordon _had _to be out there, somewhere, but...

_Bingo!_ Three marks, barely warmer than the surrounding water, about 150 feet away, and struggling. Clearly exhausted and hypothermic, they weren't going to make it.

Shouting out the location to TinTin and Virgil, Alan shoved himself into a winch harness, opened the lower hatch, and prepared to jump. TinTin focused a spotlight on the three men below, calling,

"Alan, be careful..._Please!" _

Turning to face her with wide blue eyes, the youngest Tracy replied,

"My brother's out there, and I'm not coming back without him. If..., uh, if you have to, make up something nice to tell my mom, okay?"And with that, he stepped off.

The drop was scary as hell. Though he never mentioned it afterward, he actually shrieked all the way down. Then the water, which felt more like a giant baseball bat than a pool, and instant muscle spasms like a series of icy knives being twisted through him. The drop, the waves and the noise disoriented him. Alan could no longer tell which way he'd intended to go.

Then he noticed that all of Thunderbird 2's lights had cut off except one. TinTin was pointing the way.

Thinking, _'Hang on, Gordon, I'm coming!'_ Alan started to swim.


	17. Chapter 17: Aftermath

_The sub goes down once more._

The tautly-strained cables sang like bowstrings, snapping free with hissing, whip-crack suddenness. And then, as the flame and thunder of the cargo-lifter's rockets lit the sky, _Hammerhead _went down for the last time. The freezing, dark waters of the Arctic Ocean closed over her bow, swallowing forever the US Navy's proud, mad, stubborn dream.

At _Hercules_' port rail, wrapped in a military issue blanket, Captain Craig watched her go, moisture on his face that had nothing to do with the weather. Slowly, he straightened to attention and gave a sharp salute to the valiant boat, and the score of men for whom she'd become a last anchorage.

"Sleep well..., all of you," he whispered hoarsely. "And may the Lord receive you at journey's end."

Around and behind him there was a sudden gravelly murmur, as his surviving crew offered wishes of their own; for a missing friend, for _Hammerhead,_ for the future. Together with the old man, their captain, they stood at the rail for a long, long time, watching the last oily bubbles rise and burst in the gathering light of dawn.

In the winch room, TinTin bustled about seeing to the two half-frozen sailors. Gordon and Alan, she'd take care of last, no matter what her heart yearned to do.

They'd collapsed to the deck, Gordon too sodden and hypothermic to do anything but huddle against Alan, shivering violently.

"Stay awake, Man." His brother ordered, throat ground-beef raw from salt and coughing. "First one falls asleep does dishes for a month. And that's... that's no joke, the way... my mom cooks."

Gordon managed a weak smile in response. "...Or sits down to a plate of whitebait... and a pint of watery stout... with Royce, at th' worst pub in Sheffield."

Alan patted his brother's shoulder, saying,

"How 'bout a total dive of a skate park in L.A..., and a couple of root beers?"

"You're on," Gordon replied drowsily. "Tuesday after next... I'm buyin'."

"Wow..., I gotta save your life more often!"

Gordon was alert enough, at least, not to let that one slip by him. Straightening up a bit, he said,

"You didn't save my life... I was halfway back, an' still swimmin'!"

"You were drowning."

"Well..., maybe, just a little."

Having bandaged and stabilized the two submariners, TinTin was ready to begin on her best friends. She crossed the deck at a run, with a stack of blankets under one arm, an airway re-warmer, and a pair of dry uniforms. Before she came within ear shot, Gordon glanced at his brother and said, simply,

"Thanks."

_A bit later:_

_Hammerhead,_ having never officially existed, could never be mourned, nor listed as lost. The US government managed to cover the entire affair up, even when a World Navy patrol ship tried to stop _Hercules _from coming into port, demanding to see a crew and passenger list. Fortunately, the American president, a former admiral herself, was diplomatic and devious enough to spin such mountains of red tape that the World Navy was forced to give up in disgust. It had been a very near thing, though, and the United States knew it.

Long after Thunderbird 4 and her pod were collected, and the two men within returned to their crew..., long after the bubbles ceased rising, and the last note of "Taps" died shivering in the air..., the Navy remembered their debt and made a small down-payment. It seemed that someone high up in American military circles had a bit of pull with the International Olympic Committee, and was willing to call in a favor.


	18. Chapter 18: Winners never Quit

_Back at the Olympic Village:_

Virgil and TinTin between them just managed to get Gordon back to the Olympic Village before the scheduled start of his next event. He'd been AWOL all night and part of the morning, and looked, frankly, drunk off his feet. The fact that he was still suffering the aftereffects of hypothermia and severe exhaustion could not be revealed without compromising International Rescue, so he was going to have to hunker down and accept the consequences, whatever they were.

They were met, just inside the electrified main gate, by a tall, bald, black kid with fearsomely pierced ears and a look of desperate concern.

"Gordon, lad, where 've y' been?" He demanded, as Virgil and TinTin hustled his young teammate up the walk toward Block 17. "McMahon 'll 'ave y'r hide off in tatters, if 'e finds out! 'Ell of a time t' go drinkin'!"

TinTin returned Royce's glare with steel and ice of her own.

"He's not drunk!" She snapped fiercely. "He's just...!"

"TinTin!" Virgil cut in, warningly. Turning to face Gordon's furious teammate, he said,

"He'll be alright in a little while. Just keep him warm, and let him rest. He's had a long night. We all have. If you can cover for..."

"We 'ave been," Royce growled, relieved and offended at one and the same time. "Damien's worked up a ruddy family crisis, an' Kurt's faked a bad knee, all t' keep McMahon off th' scent. We c'n take it from 'ere, thanks ever so."

Virgil nodded seriously, saying,

"Appreciate it. We're much obliged for your help, and sorry about the missed races."

"Nuthin's been missed," Royce informed them, taking charge of Gordon (who was finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation). "All th' swimmin' events 've been put off two days. They'll not be 'eld till Thursday. Somethin' about a chemical imbalance in th' pools."

TinTin and Virgil heaved twin sighs of relief. Next to International Rescue, and his family, the most important thing in Gordon's life was swimming, and this was the Olympics. It seemed he'd finally gotten a much needed lucky break.

TinTin gave him a hug before they parted company, promising to be the loudest person in the stands come Thursday, and Virgil clapped a hand to his shoulder, wishing him luck. Then Royce escorted his wobbly friend back along the sun-warmed concrete alleys of the Olympic Village.

Together they threaded a path between the Blocks, around the dining hall, and past the clinic, avoiding Block 17's street-side windows. Thankfully, the hour was still early. Most other athletes were either just arriving at their events, or catching a little extra sleep. There wasn't much noise or activity beyond the crisp snap of flags and the clatter of metal window blinds.

They reached number 17 at last, and slipped up to their room, passing a door behind which they could hear their coach having some sort of row with the rest of the swim team.

Gordon collapsed onto his bed almost immediately, not troubling to shed his team jacket or shoes. McMahon burst into the room some ten minutes later, his weather-beaten face deeply, bleakly suspicious.

"And what, exactly, is troublin' the two of _you?"_ He demanded, stalking to the center of the clothing-strewn room. Erik, Damien, Kurt, Nathan and Vittorio filtered in after him, nervous as cats. Having distracted the coach all morning, they were bang out of ideas. They needn't have worried.

Royce was seated in bed, head in his hands, a poster-child for viral distress. Gordon, obviously even sicker, was buried beneath his own blankets, barely conscious.

"Some sort o' bug, Coach," Royce groaned, his voice a faint, raspy croak. "Sick as dogs all night, both of us."

McMahon clapped a gnarled hand to his sunburnt face, drew it slowly downward.

"That damn fish, or bloody Ebola, most likely, the way our wretched luck's been fallin'!" Their coach snarled. "Bed rest n' fluids till Thursday, and not a step out o' this room before, understood? I'll bring up y'r trays myself, If I must, but y 'll get y'r damn rest, or I'll shoot you both!"

Royce nodded seriously, his great dark eyes seeming to fill up his face.

"Aye, Coach. Not a step." Somehow, his saintly obedience did little to reassure McMahon.

"We've twelve more events t' compete at," the coach reminded them. _"Twelve. _After we've swum our bit, y' can crawl home an' die in the gutter, if it makes y' happy, but not till after closin' ceremonies!"

The team agreed with their coach (it being dangerous not to) that such trifles as torn knees and hemorrhagic fever were best set aside in favor of winning medals. More or less satisfied, McMahon left to plan a warm-up schedule for the delayed events, leaving his team to themselves.

They rounded on Gordon and Royce the instant he'd gone, demanding explanations. Thinking fast, Royce saved his friend again with a quick, plausible lie.

"It was one o' them suicide migraines," he said, jerking a thumb at Gordon, who'd fallen asleep once more. "You know th' ones..., 'E 'ad t' go find a local doctor willin' t' administer somethin' that wouldn' show up later in testin'. Took awhile, is all."

Kurt winced sympathetically, speaking for the rest of the team when he remarked,

"Say no more, Royce. And here are pills, if he is needing them later." An unlabeled bottle changed hands, along with a great deal of well-meant advice. They were a tight-knit group of athletes, all in their teens to early twenties, muscled like children's action figures, bald or close-cropped, and swift to rise to each other's defense. Pain and stress were things they all understood, having been identified as swimmers in early childhood, and hammered relentlessly into top form nearly every day of their lives since.

Though within their small group each strove to be faster than the others, the competition was playful. Pressed by outsiders, they presented a united front, especially where the youngest was concerned.

The rest of the team tiptoed out after a bit, leaving Royce to stare perplexedly at his sleeping friend and wonder,

'_What did happen, really?'_


	19. Chapter 19: Gold in the Water

_One last race:_

When the time came for the 400 IM, Gordon wasn't ready, and he knew it. He'd blown his taper, having expended all of that carefully stockpiled power somewhere out in the Chukchi Sea.

Standing at the block that sunny Thursday morning, waiting for the start of his event, he felt dull, fuzzy and tired. The few cautious practice laps he'd swum had actually hurt, despite a solid forty minutes of stretching. Ordinarily, he'd have been bouncing on his toes, swinging his arms or doing pushups..., anything to work off a bit of nervous energy. This time, he just looked around, taking in the packed stands andthe soaring concrete arches with their cameras and fluttering national flags.

He felt like a condemned man. The biggest race of his life, probably, and he wasn't up to it.

The pool stretched out before him, blue and clear and mirror smooth, with the broad black line that ran his life pointing inexorably forward.

Alan was in the stands, with TinTin, and his mother. John would certainly be watching from Thunderbird 5, and the rest of the family from the Island. His teammates and coach were at their pool side seats, trying to look casual.

Four hundred long, crushing meters, one hundred each stroke; first the fly, then back, breast and freestyle. He'd be racing Reggie Clerk again, and the Americans' fastest, most aggressive swimmer, Ty Dolan.

Win? Right then, Gordon wasn't positive he could even finish. Refused to back down, though. Not with so many people expecting so much. As his father always said: a Tracy never quits. Whatever the outcome, he'd see this through.

At the official's word, Gordon mounted the block, then got into the down position, silently praying that strength appear from somewhere.

Up in the stands, Gennine Rivers brought a hand to her mouth, slowly shaking her head. Accustomed to a much more vibrant, active Gordon, the pale, still figure at block 5 frankly worried her.

"He's so tired...!" Gennine whispered softly.

"Huh?" Alan turned to regard his mother, frowning darkly. "Don't jinx him, Mom! I told you, Gordon's got this one sewed up."

"Of course, Baby," she answered automatically, patting her son's arm. Then TinTin dug another handful of popcorn out of Alan's bag, distracting him again.

In the next section over, close enough to see, though not to speak to without screaming, Scott sat with his arm around a dark-haired beauty who looked very familiar. Gennine couldn't place the face, though she was positive she'd seen the young lady before, more than once. Taking a chance, she made eye contact, and gave the couple a little wave. Scott smiled, waved back, and directed his date's attention over to Gennine and the kids, pointing them out one at a time and saying something inaudible, but apparently reassuring. His date lost her slightly dazed,_ 'relatives? I'm meeting relatives!' _look, and flashed the sort of major-watt smile usually reserved for movie screens and camera crews. And right away, Gennine recognized her. _'Oh, my...,'_ she thought to herself. _'That's a little dangerous, isn't it?'_

Then the buzzer sounded the start of the race, and Gennine had no more time to concern herself with her former stepson, and his high-profile friend. _'Just do your best, Sweetie,' _She urged silently, biting her painted lower lip, _'that's all anyone expects.'_

Blocking out everything else..., the crowd, his family, his emotions, even..., Gordon focused himself tightly on one goal; get to the wall. After that, he'd set another, but just now, all that mattered was crossing the pool.

At the buzzer he sprang for the water, cutting in clean and hard. His momentum gained him a swift fifteen meters of easy, underwater swimming, and then it was back to the surface and into the butterfly, using a combination of hip-thrusts and powerful arm strokes that propelled him through the water like a dolphin. The fly was Gordon's event. At that point and time there was no one better in all the world, and it showed in the first hundred meters of the race. Achingly tired as he was, he still led the pack, though not as commandingly as usual. He was ahead, but only just.

At the wall he touched and turned without looking to the right or left. Didn't want to see, really, how close the others were. One more butterfly lap, the weirdly punctuated crowd-roar nearly drowned out by his own loud, gasping breaths. Everything hurt. The whole universe, at that point, was pain, but he powered through it, and reached the wall again, still slightly ahead of Clerk and Dolan. Now he touched, flipped over and switched to the backstroke, not his best event. Here, if anywhere, the others would make their challenge.

The emphasis now shifted to flutter kicks and great, wheeling, hyper-extended arm strokes, watching the sky and recovering his wind. Unlike a lot of other swimmers, Gordon didn't have to worry much about the angle of his strokes. He and the water seemed to have an understanding; whatever he did, was right. He was losing ground, though, his slight lead being eaten away by Clerk and Dolan. Strong, well-rested, and scenting blood, they increased their speed, trying to bury him with a rapid backstroke lap. But Gordon refused to give up. Pushed well beyond its limits, his body responded, wringing a bit more go out of muscles nearly frayed from exhaustion. Though Clerk drew even, and Dolan pushed a bit ahead, Gordon stayed with them through the second lap of the backstroke, then switched to the breaststroke at the wall. This one was tougher. Not only speed, but precisely synchronized kicks and pulls were called for. Stray out of alignment but a little, and he'd face disqualification. Concentrating on form, he began to lose ground. Not just Reggie Clerk and Ty Dolan, but the Japanese swimmer, Takashi Yamato, shot ahead of him, 'outside smoke'. Fighting a sudden wave of panic, Gordon forced himself to stay in synch, stay streamlined. He breathed on every third lift, trying to put more energy into going forward than rising for air, but in doing so, he worsened an already serious oxygen debt. Eyes downward, glide underwater, scull to catch as much water as possible while decreasing resistance, and kick out explosively. Technique, technique, technique.

At the turn he was in danger of losing fourth place, even. Then, mercifully, it was time for the freestyle leg. This was the moment for whatever energy he'd conserved in the first 300 meters to be flung on the fire, powering him into an unbeatable lead. Except that he literally had nothing left but determination.

He drove himself anyway, flogged muscles burning with lactic acid to move faster, harder. He wasn't thinking anymore, just moving; only dimly aware of someone sliding past on his left. His strokes shortened, increasing in frequency. Touched, turned, made the long underwater glide, then broke surface for the last lap. Toward the end he stopped breathing entirely, one more pain in an ocean of fire. Then, with a last, desperate lunge, he touched the wall, crashed into it, and sank.

There was an oxygen mask, like a gift from heaven. For awhile, nothing else mattered. Then, gradually, Gordon became aware that he was slumped on the warm, gritty pool deck, supported between Royce and Coach McMahon. The older man was saying something, fighting to keep a scowl in place.

"...So y'd damn well better get up an' go get it yourself, Tracy. Fellows and Croft 're up next, an' I haven't time f'r any more o' this coddlin'."

Gordon blinked around at a circle of shaved, hard-muscled legs. Then up, and over at Royce. Was it over? Had he finished?

"Get what?" he asked, briefly removing his close friend, the oxygen mask.

Royce grinned at him. "Y'r bronze medal. The judges' 've stopped arguin' an' decided that both y'r hands touched before y'r big, block 'ead. You came in third, mate, ...An' y'r family's about to come bang through that gate, unless I'm much mistook, so y'd better get up."

After the closing ceremonies, Gordon slipped off and went to the shore, needing a bit of time alone. He didn't get it. As he approached the water across the pebbly strand, some deflection of the wind, some slight sound, alerted him to the presence of another. Even through the darkness, over the boom and hiss of surf on jagged rock, Gordon felt the man's approach.

"Hey, Murph," he said quietly, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

"Wrong again," the Seal corrected sourly. "Now you're getting too comfortable. Could've been anybody; Marine Recon, Army Special Forces, CIA..., hell, there's a whole slew of wet-work boys I haven't even begun to list! Portland ain't as quiet as it looks."

"Sorry," Gordon replied, turning to face his stealthy friend. "I'll work on it." He'd had a very full fortnight, what with relays, medal ceremonies, and boisterous family dinners. No time to really think, though. To his surprise, Murphy smiled.

"Nice job on the 400 meter," the Seal told him. "Took a lot of guts to come back, like that. Davy and me watched from the hospital room. Reception kind of sucked, but we got the gist of it."

"Dav... not David Alvarez?" Gordon asked, hopefully.

"Yup. My brother-in-law. He and Louis are gonna be okay. Most of them are, thanks to you guys. Which reminds me, I've got something for you, from Captain Craig. Just a second, got it here somewhere...," Murphy fumbled about a bit in his pockets, coming up at last with a square of folded cloth. "It's not a medal, or anything..., but some would say it's just as good. Here."

Curious, Gordon took the cloth, unfolding it carefully. By the light of a waxing moon he beheld a pair of golden dolphins, their snouts meeting over a stylized submarine. It was a pin, the mark of an American submariner. Gordon looked up at Murphy, whose smile had broadened a little.

"Craig says you've more than earned them, and I agree. Don't put 'em on yet, though. There's a ceremony that goes with it. They can't be pinned on a dry shirt, for one thing, and, ah... well..., You come to the 'Horse and Cow' down in San Francisco, next Tuesday night, and you'll find out about the rest."

"The 'Horse and Cow'?" Gordon repeated, perplexed.

"Yeah..., sort of a traveling, on-shore sub-service party. A moveable bar, I guess you'd say. Davy brings me along, whenever he's in town. Kind of fun, if hanging around with a lot of drunk, bragging, wild-eyed subbers doesn't bother you. Here's the current address, but any cabby who knows the Navy and San Francisco, 'll be able to take you there, even if you forget the way."

Gordon accepted a slip of paper with directions scrawled across it in slanting, dark print.

"Ceremony, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How bad?"

Murphy laughed. "Let's just say..., it's an experience. I got your back, though."

Gordon re-folded the cloth, and the paper, and tucked them both away in an inner pocket.

"You're on," he said.


End file.
